


They Used to Call Me Crash

by toyhto



Category: True Detective
Genre: 1995, A bit of Rust/Ginger with dubious consent maybe, Angst, Episode 4 'Who Goes There', M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23736886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: Alone like a stone at the bottom of a river.
Relationships: Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart
Comments: 19
Kudos: 46





	They Used to Call Me Crash

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [[translation] They Used to Call Me Crash](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23962534) by [hieroglyphics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hieroglyphics/pseuds/hieroglyphics)



“Are you sure you want to do this?” Marty asks. He’s wearing Crash’s leather jacket now. Rust’s not even sure when he put that on, probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. Marty’s not an idiot, not exactly, but there’re some things he sees and some that he doesn’t. And that’s good. Rust wants to keep him that way.  
  
It’s too bad that it’s come to this. They’ve got Crash’s box opened on the floor in their feet, and he can feel the booze sinking in deeper in him than it should. And perhaps Marty’s sobered up a little from what he was at the hospital, but he’s still drunk as hell, and the only reason he’s thinking about Rust and not Maggie is that Rust’s talking about Crash. This is almost too much for Marty. Like an accident scene for someone walking by – you just can’t stop staring.  
  
Rust pats him on the shoulder and goes to the kitchen. There he leans his palms against the counter and glances at Marty, who’s poking at the bullet holes in the jacket.  
  
“Crash,” Marty says slowly, turning to look at Rust over his shoulder. “Where did it come from?”  
  
“I don’t know.” He doesn’t remember. He needed another name, and not only for the obvious reasons. He needed to be someone else there.  
  
Well, of course he knew it wouldn’t work like that. He knew everything he’d do would get stuck under his skin and follow him, no matter which name he would use. The drugs helped a little, though. There’re memories that are so soft or so sharp they feel like a dream.  
  
“Crash,” Marty says to himself, still examining the jacket. God, it’s weird, seeing him in it. Marty would never do the things Rust has done.  
  
Rust doesn’t say anything about the jacket. Marty takes it off half an hour later, folds it on the chair with careful movements, almost like it’s a living thing.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He’s not looking forward to it. The trick is not to think about it. When he’s Rust, he doesn’t think about the things Crash does, and when he’s Crash, he thinks as little as possible. He used to be good at it. He wanted to forget who he was, and then when some time had passed, he couldn’t have remembered even if he had wanted to. Crash’s never loved anyone, not really. Crash never had a wife, never had a daughter. Never knew of the kind of a sorrow that’s too fucking heavy to carry and at the same time carves you hollow. The lucky bastard.  
  
But he’s been Rust for a while now. There’s this itch under his skin when he thinks about the drugs. There’s no way he’s going to get through it without using. It’s like he’s not had water in a long time and kind of forgot about it, too, but now he can hear the tap open.  
  
No, he doesn’t mind the drugs. But then there’s Marty, who’s staying at Rust’s place now that Maggie’s finally come to her senses. When Rust tries to get bruises on the inside of his elbow with cayenne and ink, Marty leans closer and asks him questions, staring at his skin as if it’s something that doesn’t fit in Marty’s world. It probably doesn’t. Rust doesn’t. There’s so much he’s not going to tell Marty about and Marty’s never going to guess.  
  
It’s a mistake to listen to Marty’s sounds through the ceiling in the middle of night when he can’t sleep. Marty probably thinks he’s quiet but isn’t. He walks around, opens the window and closes it again, sighs loudly like he wants to be heard, jerks off in the bathroom and then walks half-way down the stairs before he turns back. One morning, Rust went to take a shower and when he came back, Marty was in the kitchen, wearing Crash’s jacket. Rust didn’t say anything about it, but Marty’s face got flushed like Rust had caught him with a hand on his dick or something.  
  
But soon this is going to end. Rust will be Crash, Marty will be a paper doll in his mind, and they will get Ledoux. And then, well, there’s a chance that Maggie will take Marty back after all.  
  
Rust sleeps a little at most nights, which is great because Crash isn’t going to sleep much. He steals coke from the station and Marty doesn’t ask him where he got it, and he doesn’t ask himself why he lets Marty wear his fucking jacket. He knows anyway. He’s been lonely for a long fucking time.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He’s been Crash for a week when shit starts happening. He didn’t think he was nervous about meeting Ginger, not exactly, but when he sees Marty right before, Marty’s face is like a goddamn mirror. He looks Marty in the eyes and sees himself, all the layers. His face is grey and his eyes are wide and he looks like he’s high, which he is, but it doesn’t end with that. He’s standing too close to Marty but can’t help it. And it’s not like Marty’s pushing him away, either. He could. Rust would back off if Marty wanted him to, but Marty only leans closer and then asks him about Maggie. Rust tells him what he wants to hear. Marty believes it. It’s so easy, for a while, and then it isn’t anymore.  
  
Marty asks him what he thinks he’s going to have to do. Marty asks him who Ginger is.  
  
Crash takes a step away. He’s not going to tell Marty. He’s going to say as little as possible and Marty’s going to be happy.  
  
“I don’t know, man,” Marty says, eyeing Crash’s clothes. “You seem a bit… I know you need to… you’ve got to play the role when you’re undercover, but you’re with me now, Rust, and I’m… I’m a little worried.”  
  
He laughs out loud, then falls silent because Marty looks so shocked. He doesn’t want that. “Don’t think about it, Marty.”  
  
Marty shakes his head. “You know him well?”  
  
“Ginger? Yeah, pretty well.”  
  
“But he’s not…” Marty chews on his lower lip. It was a mistake to tell him not to think about it, because now he’s going to think about nothing else. And Rust fucking knew that when he said it.  
  
“He’s not what? Dangerous?” He wants to laugh at Marty again but it gets stuck in his throat.  
  
“I need you to be alright, Rust.”  
  
_Why_ , Rust wants to ask.  
  
“Tell me you’re going to be alright.”  
  
“Of course I’m going to be alright.”  
  
“You’re lying,” Marty says, looking like he doesn’t have a goddamn clue whether Rust’s lying or not.  
  
“Do you like my look?” Rust asks – no, it’s not him, it’s Crash, or maybe it’s the urge to tell Marty that he’s not been alright in a long time. Or maybe it’s just that he’s been in Crash’s skin for a week and there’re odd shadows in his mind. He needs, absolutely needs to touch someone, or else he’s not going to remember he’s real. That’s probably why it happened with Ginger.  
  
What he tells himself is that he let Ginger fuck him, so that the bastard would keep him close and not as a threat. And it worked. It was good for the job. But that’s not the reason. He let Ginger fuck him because he was so lonely he thought it was going to break his brain or something.  
  
“Your look?” Marty asks, and it takes Rust a few seconds to remember what he asked of Marty. _Fuck._ He shouldn’t have let it happen. “Your… I think you look dangerous, which is probably the whole point.”  
  
“Yeah,” Rust asks, “but do you _like it?_ ”  
  
Marty blinks. Rust wants to back away but can’t move. This isn’t what he was supposed to do, not at all. He’s better than this.  
  
“Rust,” Marty says, biting his lips.  
  
“Crash,” Rust says and raises both his hands when Marty takes a step closer. “I’m Crash now. Can’t just drop it, man. Sorry about that. Sorry if I’m…”  
  
“It’s fine,” Marty says. “I just need this to be over so that we can get you out of here.”  
  
It’s never going to be over. But he doesn’t tell Marty that. “I can handle Ginger,” he says instead, which is worse. “I think. I used to. Whatever he wanted, I could read it on his face. It’s easy to handle someone when you know what they want.”  
  
“Really,” Marty asks, frowning. “What did he want?”  
  
“Me,” Rust says in Crash’s voice, “he wanted me. Used to like me. My face, and… yeah.”  
  
“No,” Marty says, like he’s not sure what Rust’s saying but he’s personally offended anyway.  
  
“It’s not the kind of a job you can do without getting involved,” Rust says, “being undercover, it’s like… it swallows you.”  
  
Marty shakes his head. “But you didn’t have to… Fucking hell, Rust, you didn’t –“  
  
“It wasn’t a big romance or anything like that,” Rust says only to make it worse – one thing he hates about himself is this, here, this fucking thing in his brain that can’t let go until he’s burnt every goddamn bridge. “Just fucking. I was lonely.”  
  
Marty looks like Rust punched him in the face. Good. Maybe that’ll put some sense into him. Maybe he’ll see Rust for what he is and will stop petting his leather jacket.  
  
“ _Lonely_ ,” Marty says and walks to him, the goddamn idiot. Rush takes a step back. Marty follows. “You can’t be _lonely._ ”  
  
“I’ve got a job to do,” Rust says.  
  
Marty grabs the front of his shirt. He could get free of Marty’s grip in a second. If he wanted to. “We could,” Marty says, “I don’t know, play card or something. You could stay for a moment. For a few hours. Be yourself.”  
  
“I can’t be myself.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Nothing’s real,” Rust says. He can see everything on Marty’s face, every little thing. “We’re just tales we tell about ourselves.”  
  
“That’s fucking nonsense.”  
  
“This,” Rust says and makes a vague gesture at himself, “this is just the other story about me.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yeah. This… Crash… this man is just another story. But it’s got my skin. My bones. My dick. My…”  
  
His heart.  
  
Marty lets go of him and he almost falls onto the floor. Shit, he’s a bit too high. He blinks and tries to figure out how he managed to push Marty away.  
  
_Oh_. He mentioned his dick.  
  
“We deal with this tonight,” Marty says to him in a stretched tone. “And tomorrow, it’s going to be over. We’re going to order a pizza and watch a movie and get fucking wasted. Something normal. And you’ve got to tell me if you’re lonely. I’m your _friend._ ”  
  
Nothing is normal, and it’s not the kind of loneliness that gets fixed with watching a movie and eating pizza, and it doesn’t make it friendship that Marty keeps saying the word like a charm. But Rust keeps his mouth shut for once, and Marty looks relieved and tells him to be careful. He doesn’t laugh, and then he leaves.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Violence is just another thing that his hands do when his mind can’t quite catch up with them. Violence, he thinks, is a side plot in Crash’s story, but it’s essential for the character. And he’s very good at playing. But maybe the soul has memory like muscles do – it’s not moments and names and feelings, it’s the things your body’s grown used to doing, it’s all the ways it’s ever been in this world. He pulls the car over to an empty parking lot, opens the zipper and tugs at the boxers just enough to get his fist around his dick. Just another thing his hands do. It helps a little, maybe, doesn’t lower his heartbeat but blurs the memory of Marty gripping the front of his shirt. Marty’s not real. This is. He is. The job is. Ginger probably is, fucking hell, but he can deal with Ginger, has before.  
  
And it’s true what he said to Marty. The risks aren’t that high. If something goes wrong, he gets a bullet in the head. And death is the end of everything, death is the end of everything, that’s the only fairy tale he’s made himself believe in, that’s the prayer he keeps saying in the dark.  
  
It gets a little hazy after that, or sharper, depending on which story you’re trying to tell.  
  
The parking lot. Marty’s car that he doesn’t let himself look at. Cigarette smoke, weed, all the people, the noise, the noise of music and laughter and talking, everything clanging together. The lights are too bright. He’s too slow but he can’t move faster, might collide with something. The door – he tells them he’s looking for Ginger, says his name, they let him in. Hands searching him. This doesn’t feel like his body, or feels more of his body than whatever Rust’s been dragging along for the past year or what. Hasn’t even slept with anyone, the idiot, could’ve fucked a nice woman, could’ve fucked Marty, perhaps, perhaps… But Crash isn’t going to think about that now. He’s got to keep Marty out of this. Marty’s another story. And what’s here is Ginger, looking at him over the fire. There’s a shiver inside his skin that’s both pleasure and a fucking warning.  
  
He's good at this. The stuff Ginger gives him makes everything move inside his head, but he’s good at this, he’s Crash and Rust at the same fucking time. As if they ever were separate. He goes with Ginger when Ginger wants him to, he gets more high on the boat, has stopped counting a long time ago. It’s funny, all these rules, all this effort to live your life like a story you could put in a book, when it’s not, there’s no one writing about it, and the ending is always the same anyway. He’s seen it. Fuck, he’s seen it many times and it’s always the same. No fucking reason to keep the lines straight, no reason except to fool yourself.  
  
Ginger’s place at the swamp: they fuck against the wall. The place smells clean, smells of a home almost, of the things people collect to believe they’ve got a place in this world. Everyone else is somewhere else, at the yard maybe, Marty in the car somewhere, driving, waiting for Rust to call, but Crash is here, and he can fucking remember Ginger’s touch. It’s happening now like it happened before, and it’s going to make Ginger trust him.  
  
That’s not why he’s doing it. He’s doing it because Ginger’s hands on his skin feel better than anything else in fucking forever. We aren’t supposed to go through this life alone which is a fucking farce because that’s what we are, alone, alone like a stone at the bottom of a river.  
  
He tries to breathe when Ginger pushes inside him but can’t. It seems that his body’s forgotten _this._ Ginger laughs, and then grabs his hips tighter, slams into him, says something about how obviously he’s been saving his virtue, he says something sharp back, can’t follow what. Rust doesn’t do this, no, because there’s no one to do this with, and _shit_ , he’s thinking about Marty now, and he can’t. He wraps his fingers around his cock and comes before Ginger does, and then it’s just a pleasant blur of noise and pain and a hazy memory of Marty in his leather jacket, a memory like from a book you read a long time ago.  
  
Yeah, he doesn’t like violence, but his hands know it, and he’s got a job to do.  
  
But maybe there’s some kind of a joy when at the end of it, he hits Ginger in the face and drags him out of the building with everyone shouting and everyone shooting and for fucking once he’s not going to let Ginger tell him what to do, what to be, only at this point it’s out of his hands as well. His hands are very good with this. He could beat the shit out of anyone if he’d get a good chance. He wonders what Marty would think of that, and he calls Marty, too, tells him where to come, and Ginger’s running, he’s got to go, he’s got to believe Marty got it, got to believe Marty’s going to be there for him or else this is going to be for nothing. He holds Ginger in tight grip like Ginger did to him earlier. They run through the yard, Ginger apparently can’t make up his mind about whether to trust Crash or not, or maybe the thing is, the funny thing is, even though it’s obvious he’s got his own agenda here, he’s still the only person that’s going to get Ginger out of this hellhole alive. And he does. He fucking does, and there’s the car, there’s Marty, they get in, he tells Marty to drive, there’re police cars everywhere, he punches Ginger in the face, Marty glances at him like he’s done something surprising. Something that doesn’t fit in Marty’s story.  
  
_Fuck._ He was never going to fit in Marty’s story.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Everything’s quiet.  
  
They’re at the side of the road somewhere. Ginger’s on the floor of Rust’s truck now. Rust took him out to take a piss, doesn’t want the bastard to piss himself, wouldn’t be much use then. Then he taped Ginger’s wrists and ankles together, taped his mouth, too, and Marty watched him and said nothing.  
  
Now he’s sitting in the front seat in Marty’s car. The sun is about to rise. He hates this scene, the endless fields, nowhere to hide. Everything in him aches: his head, knuckles, shoulders, ass. He could slip away from Marty for a second, he’s still got coke, but no. They’ve got a job to do. And Marty’s looking at him like he can’t decide who he is, and he wants to be Rust, fuck how much he wants to be Rust now. Rust’s the one Marty invited for a family dinner, Rust went to get Marty from the hospital when the idiot was trying to explain himself to Maggie in the worst possible scenario ever, Rust took Marty to live with him, Rust makes Marty coffee in the morning.  
  
“I didn’t think -,” Marty says, then pauses, looks at Rust, looks away, tries again, the goddamn idiot. It’s unclear for how long Rust’s liked him this way. “That was…” Marty frowns. “ _Shit._ ”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Now Marty looks at him. He looks away. “Alright?”  
  
He takes a deep breath and then lets it out.  
  
“Because if you aren’t…” Marty says, chews on his lower lip. “You don’t need to be, Rust. You don’t need to be alright. We’ll do this job, we’ll do this, and then you can just… not be alright.”  
  
“I can’t, Marty,” he says and closes his eyes. He can still see it, the light coming over the fields. He can still feel Marty sitting in the car next to him. “It’s a bit too much. I can’t let it unravel.”  
  
Marty’s quiet for a moment. “Four years?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“How did you even…”  
  
“It’s just like life. Time passes by.”  
  
“Yeah,” Marty says, “but… you look like…”  
  
“Don’t you like my look?” Rust asks, but with his own voice this time. This is his story. He asks, Marty says no, that’s how it goes. His fucking story.  
  
“Yeah, I like it,” Marty says, which is a tiny surprise, not that he does but that he says it. “But you look like you’re about to break.”  
  
“When this is all over,” Rust says, “I’m going to go home and just sit there in silence and read a fucking book.”  
  
“It’s not going to be silent,” Marty says, “I’ll be there.”  
  
Goddamn.  
  
“Rust –“  
  
“Yeah?” he says, because he’s tired as hell and can’t keep up with the story.  
  
“Was it… You don’t need to talk about it, of course, if you don’t want to, but I hear that talking… Fuck, I can’t even imagine what you…”  
  
“I’m not going to tell you. If I tell you, you’re going to look at me differently.”  
  
“I _am_ looking at you differently.”  
  
“Yeah, alright, but not that way.”  
  
“What way?”  
  
Rust shakes his head, then opens his eyes. The early morning light is too bright and Marty’s looking at him like he wants to know him, the idiot. “I let him fuck me.”  
  
Marty flinches, then glances over at Rust’s truck, doesn’t see Ginger, of course, because Ginger’s on the floor, then glances back at Rust, tries to make sense of it, can’t. Which is probably for the best. “Did he –“  
  
“No,” Rust says, but that’s not the point. And there _is_ a line between no choice and a bad choice, but he can’t see it clearly right now. “I was lonely.”  
  
“You were –“  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“ _Lonely._ ”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So you let him –“  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“ _Rust –_ “  
  
“Yeah,” he says, and then, in case it’s unclear. “In the ass.”  
  
Marty’s staring at him with his mouth open now. “So, when Maggie wanted to set you up with someone –“  
  
“No, it’s not like that. I mean, it’s not like I wouldn’t… I like women, Marty.”  
  
“Oh,” Marty says, like Rust suddenly makes sense to him again. “Okay.”  
  
“I think we’re just bodies,” Rust says, because he’s too fucking tired to hold back now, “we’re just bodies and it doesn’t really matter if there’s a cunt or a cock or whatever. It’s just flesh. Just meat. What really matters is when someone looks at you.”  
  
Marty looks at him. He licks his lips.  
  
“Like they know you,” he says, “even though that’s a fucking illusion. But we can’t live without, I think. We need that. So, what matters is that someone looks at you like they’re willing to put up with your bullshit, with your body and your thoughts and your words and the things you can’t get rid of even though you try. That’s what matters.”  
  
“Rust,” Marty says, his eyes on Rust’s, “that doesn’t fucking make sense. You sound like a romantic but, like, in a very grim way.”  
  
He clears his throat. “Well –“  
  
“Holy fuck, Rust.”  
  
“I’m not a whole person,” he says, “haven’t been since Sophia died. Maybe that’s why I can be Crash, too. I’m not whole anyway.”  
  
Marty stays quiet for a moment, probably tries to think it all over in his little head. He looks very good in that t-shirt. Well, of course they both need a shower and a night’s sleep and a good breakfast, and partial amnesia wouldn’t hurt either, but well, Marty looks good. Always does and knows it too, only he thinks about it in the wrong way. He thinks he looks tough and manly and maybe a little dangerous but in a lovable way. But that’s not it at all.  
  
“Rust,” Marty says, raises his hand slowly as if wondering what to do with it, and then places it on Rust’s knee. It’s not a sexual gesture at all. But Rust’s story is a mess and he can feel himself beginning to get hard. It doesn’t help that Marty rubs his thumb against the inside seam of Rust’s trousers.  
  
“Marty, I’m going to get hard.”  
  
Marty’s thumb stops. “What?”  
  
“So if you don’t want that, maybe stop petting my knee.”  
  
“You’re going to…” Marty says. His thumb draws another circle, then stops again. “Why?”  
  
Rust laughs. It sounds like he’s underwater, trying to get air.  
  
“I mean, “Marty says, “I know the basic principle, alright, you don’t have to laugh at me, but I mean… because I’m touching you?”  
  
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” Rust says, and then, “yeah.”  
  
“Yeah? So, you like…” Marty starts moving his thumb again. Shit, this is a mistake. Now Marty’s going to think for the rest of his life that his magic thumb just _does_ it for people.  
  
“No, it’s you,” Rust says for the good of the humankind. “I just like you.”  
  
“You… But I’ve touched you before,” Marty says. “I never noticed…”  
  
“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly sober yet. And…”  
  
“And what?” Marty asks, squeezing Rust’s knee.  
  
“My stories are a mess. I can’t keep all the bullshit in.”  
  
“Your stories?”  
  
“Me and Crash.”  
  
Marty licks his lips. “What bullshit?”  
  
“I’m fucking lonely, Marty,” Rust says and wants to shoot himself in the head right after, because that kind of things, you just don’t say them aloud. That’s the rule. But he’s too fucking tired.  
  
Marty looks at him for a long time, keeps rubbing his knee, and he keeps getting hard until it’s a bit uncomfortable.  
  
“Want to get off?” Marty asks.  
  
Rust shakes his head. “You wouldn’t like that.”  
  
“I think,” Marty says, raises his other hand, places it on the back of Rust’s neck. Rust grabs his wrist but he doesn’t let go, and in a moment it’s hard to tell if Rust’s keeping Marty’s hand in place or trying to pull it away. “I think it’s not such a big deal,” Marty says, his eyes saying that it is a big deal, the biggest deal. “Two guys jerking each other off, yeah, who hasn’t done that?”  
  
_You haven’t_ , Rust thinks. He can’t always read Marty but now he thinks he can.  
  
“I get lonely, too,” Marty says, stroking Rust’s cheek with his thumb. It’s fucking absurd. It’s so much better than Ginger’s hands on him, but not enough. “Now, stay still.”  
  
Rust opens his mouth to say something, _stay still_ , what the hell, where does Marty think he’s going to go? But he doesn’t have time, because Marty pulls his hands away and then opens his zipper, pushes his right hand in and wraps his fingers around Rust’s cock.  
  
“Alright?” Marty asks.  
  
Rust doesn’t answer, can’t, because there’s no way of knowing what he would say. He reaches for Marty’s trousers and finds Marty’s dick half-hard. Marty’s looking at him like he’s a fucking miracle, and he’s not, but for the next two minutes, he kind of forgets about that.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Rust,” Marty says. It’s the morning. They’ve slept a little in Marty’s car. Rust feels much worse than before sleeping. The sun is shining on them through the window glass, his shirt is damp with sweat and he needs to get out to take a piss and a shit and probably to vomit, too.  
  
“Marty,” he says. He can’t move. Everything fucking hurts.  
  
“The last night –“  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“We’re going to talk about it,” Marty says, and that’s a fucking surprise. Rust turns to look at him. He doesn’t look like a man who jerked his friend off in a whim and wants to forget about it. “At home,” he says pointedly, “we’re going to talk about it when all this is over and we get back home.”  
  
“We don’t have to,” Rust says, just to offer him a way out. He doesn’t want to be a fucking trap for Marty.  
  
“No,” Marty says, “but we’re going to.” Then he frowns at Rust. “How’re you feeling?”  
  
“Like shit.”  
  
“Yeah. You look like that, too.”  
  
“Thank you very much,” Rust says and opens the side door. “I’m going to throw up.”  
  
“I’ve got a bag of chips for you when you’re done,” Marty says. Suddenly his voice is all cheerful, like they’re at the station and he’s telling the idiots there about his big dick. Just another Monday morning. The man’s a fucking marvel. “What’re you staring at?”  
  
“You,” Rust says, gets out of the car and throws up in the ditch.  
  
After he’s finished, they share the bag of chips, and then they get this shit done.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)


End file.
